The Story of Papi Mezcal

Illustration by the amazingly talented Kelcey Vossen.

Going on a sober date is difficult enough.

Going on a sober date with a 45 year-old artist who is chugging down Mezcal like he’s on his first Cancun Spring Break while projecting the sins of his Russian ex-wife on you, is difficult on an entirely new level. Let’s just call it Dante’s Malebolge of dating.

Papi Mezcal and I met as a result of a fleeting experimental mood in which I temporarily tampered with my Raya age settings, one of those momentary lapses of judgment that come from looking at too much Birkin-Gainsbourg paraphernalia. To my credit, he was a young-looking 47, with a punchy slideshow that advertised his numerous tattoos, globetrotting adventures, and overall affinity for all things cool and hip.

Numbers were exchanged, and, by some technological glitch that I have yet to comprehend, he suddenly appeared on my Snapchat feed. This is when I discovered that Papi Mezcal was a true Snapchat wunderkind way beyond (or, in this case, below) his years. Think slow motion videos of ample-bodied security officers walking backwards through airports, holding emoji donuts while simultaneously releasing emoji turds – Gen Z levels of creative genius, really.

Genius or not, the guy was clearly off his rocker, regularly displaying sociopathic tendencies, such as when he “jokingly” promised to bring roofies on our date (see below) and got unreasonably angry at me for cancelling a coffee meeting at the last-minute. Unable to get rid of a lingering sense of unease I had about him, I resolved never to meet him in person.

Said decision was amended in late January, when we both found ourselves in Miami on the same (mind-numbingly boring) weekend. My social interactions being limited to my parents and their friends, I began responding to Papi Mezcal’s weird Snaps with weird Snaps of my own. Before I knew it, I was agreeing to accompany him to a concert at the Faena hotel on Friday evening.

Feeling like I had nothing to lose, I asked him to pick me up. Two minutes after I had sent the text, the phone rang.

“Sugar, have you ever heard of Uber? It’s this thing they invented, it’s great. Very cheap in Miami. I’ll send you one.” He had the voice of an old Jewish grandmother from Staten Island.

“It’s ok, I just figured you wanted to be chivalrous, since you are of the older set..” Pam! I decided to hit where the Botox hurts.

“Sugar, you must be really hot. Because only a really hot babe talks like that.”

“Nope, just an inflated sense of self-worth. Also, I’m Russian.”

“My ex-wife is Russian. I hate you already.” We were off to a great start.

The pressure was on: now I actually had to look hot! Prada pumps were borrowed from a family friend, hair was straightened with what may have been a clothing iron, cheekbones were defined via Charlotte Tilbury magic. I arrived at the Faena (in my own Uber, thank you very much) and was greeted by my date, who materialized in a puff of Chanel Allure. With his slim black suit, white Common Projects sneakers and subtle Botox, he hit every wannabe-youngster cliché in the book.

Giving me an appraising up-and-down stare that made me feel way more naked than I should have, given that I was wearing jeans a ginormous silk Rag & Bone pajama shirt as outerwear, he voiced his appraisal. “Not bad. I would have picked you up.”

We headed to the bar, where Papi earned his full nickname by ordering a Mezcal. I explained to him that I was doing Dry January to start the year off on a healthy note.

“So, what does that mean for me?” he inquired. Knowing that douche is best met with douche, I told him that that it meant that my promiscuity levels were at zero.

“I see,” he said, taking a swing of Mezcal before, I kid you not, ordering a second one right away. “It’s ok. You seem a little lesbian-y anyway.” Hmm, interesting.

“C’mon sugar, let’s take a look at the Hirst,” he said. He ushered me towards the garden, expertly balancing two Mezcals in one hand while grazing the small of my back with the other. After Snapping a few dozen pictures of the hotel’s signature Damien Hirst sculpture (a very discreet life-sized mammoth skeleton – in gold), we descended into the basement of the hotel, where a “secret” concert was taking place.

This is when I realized that Papi Mezcal was a popular man at the Faena, as he appeared to know most of the guests in attendance. Coincidentally, I happened to receive a work email that demanded immediate attention, preventing me from dynamically engaging with all the young women and elderly men I was being introduced to.

When I checked back into the conversation, Papi was not happy. “Are you going to be on your phone all night?” he demanded, like I was a teen stuck in Snapchat-land. (Wait, that was him!)

I tucked away my phone and soon found myself chatting with one of Papi’s clients, a trader whose age I could not determine, for it was obscured by his weight, roughly around 400 pounds.

“I am living in the St. Regis for now! I have the whole floor, you guys should visit!” He was telling us, noting that this was just a temporary accommodation while he waited for his Star Island mansion to be complete. “It’s going to be magical! THREE swimming pools!”

Looking at him, I knew that I would rather live in my old Marais studio with my smelliest Parisian ex until the day I kicked it, if this meant never having to be in a swimming pool with this man. Papi, who was clearly counting on all that Star Island wall space, elbowed me. “Be nice, sugar!” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The St. Regis prince clearly felt very comfortable around us, for he was now recounting the gruesome details his latest diet. “It’s very strict but I have cheat days!” he said, going on to list every single food item he had consumed during the last one (roughly and entire American food court).

“My next cheat day is on February 21st! If you want, I will fly both of you out so you can join!” he offered. At this point, even Papi Mezcal almost chocked on his tequila.

The concert started. I had no idea who was performing and never got a chance to find out, because Papi declared that he was hungry. Mezcal No. 8 had clearly hit his head and given him the munchies, because he ushered me out of the hotel and whisked me off to dinner at the Freehand hotel, his only saving grace in the trajectory of the night.

“So, what’s good here?” I inquired, excited to try out the spot.

“Sugar, let me just order for us.” I chose not to protest as it finally started to dawn on me that I was sitting on prime blog content and should just let the events pan out naturally.

To his credit, Papi was an excellent ordered, and we were soon sharing a giant fish and discussing modern technology and its interaction with art, the latter being a topic he was deeply knowledgeable about. Curious about his opinion, I mentioned that I often felt that the art industry was exclusive and pretentious, somewhat akin to fashion.

Papi stared at me as though I had just insulted his kin. “That was really stupid, Sugar. I will pretend that you never said that.”

Once again, I chose not to argue (my levels of self-control on a sober head were staggering!) Instead, I simply switched into Revenge Gear, asking him what had happened with the Russian ex-wife. By his vague response it was clear that she had taken him for all he was worth. Part of me mentally high-fived my compatriot, while the (Zen Buddhist) part of me felt sorry for the poor schmuck, who was clearly his own worst enemy. He seemed kind of sad, in that way that angry and bitter people often seem sad – as though, by hurting others, they are mainly just hurting themselves.

Alas, my empathy reserves dissipated throughout the course of the dinner, as Papi Mezcal informed me of the following things he thought I needed to know about myself:

I am difficult. This came as a surprise, considering I had done nothing but smile and act like a goddamn pajama-clad Saint that entire night. Fine, next..
I am a lesbian (AGAIN!) and the shirt isn’t helping my cause.
I am also probably frigid. Why? Because most Russian women are frigid, of course!
I have three good years left to go. As a Russian girl who has been told since the age of thirteen that life ends at thirty, this is the kind of stuff that usually rolls off my back. And yet, I would like to point out that it takes a special kind of chauvinistic old prick to utter these words to a person they are meeting for the first time in their life.

“Life ends at 30.” Illustration by Kelcey Vossen

And still, I didn’t hate him. He was just old and pathetic and clearly overly committed to Neil Strauss’s The Game, with its outdated ‘backhand insult’ tactics that any woman past the age of 25 can smell from a mile away. (That, or good old elementary school bullying.)

After dinner, he asked me to come with him to another party at the Thompson. “Just for fun,” he said, cupping my butt.

I reminded him about my non-promiscuity kick. “That’s fine, I don’t like you anyway,” he reassured me. Uh-oh, why not? “I don’t know, there is just something about you that is highly unlikeable,” was his charming response.

That was the moment all the nastiness of the evening finally hit me, and I told him that I was going to order myself an Uber. Hearing this, he whipped out another classic move that men use to make us feel crazy after being dicks: “Don’t be dramatic.”

The worst part was that it actually worked and I accompanied him to the Thompson, where I stayed for exactly fifteen minutes before coming to my senses and getting the hell out of Dodge – or, in this case, out of South Beach.

The next morning, I received a text message from Papi Mezcal, inviting me to join him on a boat. See for yourself below.

Apparently, despite being a highly unlikeable, difficult, asexual, pajama-wearing lesbian, I had succeeded in evoking a number of conflicting emotions within Papi Mezcal, a true badge of honor that I probably have another three years to wear with pride until I rot like an old can of Campbells.

FYI, he Snapped me every day for a month, but the frigid lesbian in me was just not that into it.